


D. de lumine

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Post S3, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesdays are for the melancholy man and his solo waltz.    Except this Tuesday is different, and John is having none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	D. de lumine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Johnlock Challenges Valentines Gift Exchange on tumblr. This gift is for bloodyenochian, who's prompt was: "Sherlock finally gets that dance (which is NOT just practising)" 
> 
> This work is unbetaed and has not been Brit-picked. Please forgive any errors as they are all mine.

It’s Tuesday.  Sherlock knows that on Tuesdays Mrs. Hudson has her ladies luncheon so she won’t be back for several hours.  And because of that, on Tuesdays he can have the privacy he so greatly desires.  He can (and does) ignore the doorbell.  Tuesday’s clients have no place in his world.  Because midday Tuesdays are reserved for him, the melancholy man.  It is the only time he allows himself to open up and accept the wistful, unhappy emotions that he otherwise punches down and hides behind his well-tailored suit and tight shirts, his physical armor.  So he waits.  He waits patiently in his blue robe that he digs out for Tuesdays.  The blue one had always been _his_ favorite.  People think Sherlock’s not a patient person, but people are idiots.  He’s patient when patience is required.  Mrs. Hudson has a routine; she will be out the door by 11 sharp.  He can wait for that stroke of the clock.

 

Sure enough, the clock turns over to 11 and he hears the soft click of Mrs. Hudson leaving the flat.  He gets up to watch her go to be sure she hasn’t forgotten anything before he allows his mask to fall away.  Gone is the cool sociopath facade.  If he were to look in the mirror (which he won’t), his face would echo the weariness he feels in his bones, his eyes the sadness of loss and pain, the line of his jaw no longer firm in stubborn defiance, his mouth set in resignation of one who has lost everything before he realized what it was he had.  Sherlock sighs and closes the curtains and door to the flat.  This is a private party for one.  He doesn’t need any of the nosey press, the fans, or his brother snooping in on this moment.

 

Sherlock slips the iPhone out of the pocket of his robe and thumbs through the music until he finds the piece he’s looking for.  He pauses for a moment before he hits play and puts it on repeat.  The piece is one of his own, but not one anyone else has heard.  “D. de lumine”, roughly translated from Latin is “conductor of light”.  Even if his brother has some way of tracking what is on his phone, and it is entirely possible he does, Mycroft would have no idea what the name refers to.  A waltz for Sherlock and John.  He hits play, closes his eyes where he stands and lets the sound of the violin wash over him.  He knows each note and crescendo by heart, each slide of the bow is etched in his memory, every rise and fall carefully constructed to create the evocative piece.  His love song, the singular most heartfelt piece he’s ever written.  And no one but him will ever hear it.

 

Sherlock slowly begins to sway, letting the music take hold.  He raises his arms and begins to dance.  One-two-three, one-two-three.  In his mind he leads John in a waltz around the flat.  He breaks form to have his arm around mind-John’s waist, closes the gap, and Sherlock beams down at him.  John’s form is terrible, his hand resting at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, but Sherlock doesn’t mind.  They’re close as they dance rising and falling to the music, the sunlight from the windows in his mind pours in illuminating them.  Sherlock, in the real world, smiles his eyes still closed as he dances with the most important, most beloved person in his life.  This, this is what Tuesdays are for.  The rest of the world can “piss off” as mind-John puts it.  Sherlock chuckles as he dances.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

John lets himself into 221 Baker Street, grateful that Sherlock never asked for his key back.  He sighs and drags his duffle bag in, trying not to bang his backpack against the narrow door frame.  The last thing he wants to do is announce his presence to Sherlock before John is ready to face him.  It has taken him longer than it should have to leave Mary.  He’s tried to be the good husband and doting father.  Lord knows he loves his little girl.  But he also has to do what’s best for everyone.  He has never been able to fully trust Mary again and his little Diana is starting to suffer from their constant fights.  Who knew a one year-old could be so perceptive?  John has pulled a few strings, begging Mycroft to make sure Mary didn’t take the child and run, letting Mycroft know the reasons why he was suspicious and where he would be.  221B has never been baby proofed so he couldn’t bring Diana with him yet.  He didn’t think Mary would take his daughter from him, but then, as he has reminded himself quite frequently of late, he doesn’t really know who Mary was, as hard as he’s tried.  

 

So now, he stands at the base of the stairs, hoping that Sherlock will allow him to crash at the flat.  At least until he finds a place of his own or maybe reside there permanently again.  John still isn’t sure which he wants.  One thing at a time, he reminds himself.  He adjusts his backpack.  It is then he hears the muffled, quiet music wafting down the stairs.  Sherlock is playing his violin again, but it isn’t a song John’s ever heard.

 

It’s an original piece, he’s sure of it.  But there is more to it than Irene’s song that Sherlock had composed all those years ago.  It goes deeper.  He senses a sadness to it, but also picks out the lightness contradicting the sorrow that seems to be an underlying theme.  There is a push and pull feel to the music, as if the two sides are battling but friends.  It is odd, because underneath the tone of friendship there is something more, a strain of unrequited love.  It reaches in and pulls at John, tugging at the center of his chest, drawing him forwards and up the stairs.  He drops his backpack on top of his duffle bag and quietly ascends the stairs.

 

The door to the flat is closed.  John stares at it a moment, because the last time he found it closed was the day he came by to tell Mrs. Hudson that he was planning on proposing to Mary.  Sherlock never closes the door.  He contemplates knocking, but the music compels him not to.  He quietly opens the door to reveal not Sherlock playing the violin, but instead dancing to music coming from the speakers of the music dock.  John watches as Sherlock rises and falls in slow circles to the music.  He recognizes the pattern as a waltz.  There’s a soft smile on Sherlock’s face and John can see that something Sherlock’s form is off.  He watches Sherlock and listens to the music, realization slowly dawning on him.

 

John is not an idiot, nor is he as uncultured as some people believe.  He can appreciate and understand the meaning behind music, even if he was abysmal at dancing before Sherlock taught him.  Every piece of music is saying something.  And this piece, John somehow senses, is about him and Sherlock.  The push and pull, the battling-but-friends-but-something-more makes sense now.  The two parts are the two of them.  Sherlock had written this piece about them.  John’s mouth falls open.  More revelations begin to dawn and the tugging in his chest intensifies.

 

Revelation number one:  He should have seen it long ago or at least stopped trying to deny it, because, if he is honest with himself, John has known for a while.  Sherlock Holmes cares for him more than he does anyone else, bar none.  Quite possibly, no definitely, is in love with him.  

 

Revelation number two:  Maybe there was more to him leaving Mary than just the never-ending fights.  Maybe some of the unwelcome jabs she took at him had some weight.  Because he feels more, in this moment, for Sherlock Holmes than he does anyone else, except for Diana.  He is drawn to this tall man, waltzing alone in his flat, to a song that he had written about the two of them.  He finds himself wanting to dance with Sherlock.  He suddenly wants to hold him, find out what it feels like to dance with him when it wasn’t just practice, wrap him in his arms and keep the world at bay.  Because looking at Sherlock now, with his masks down, eyes closed, obviously imagining himself dancing with John, this was a Sherlock who no one ever saw and was hurting, was lonely, was different, who wouldn’t allow anyone to see him this way.  And in that moment, John decides that Sherlock shouldn’t have to feel like he has to keep his masks up always.  If there was one person he should be able to let his masks down around, it is John.  

 

Then revelation number three dawns on him:  John knows what everyone has been saying is true.  He is in love with Sherlock Holmes.  He is sure of that, beyond else anything he’s ever felt before.  Even for Mary, before he found out what kind of person she was.  So he waits for Sherlock to turn and make his circuit around the room again.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock knows where every piece of furniture is in the flat, he knows where the rug is worn, and he knows what it feels like to dance alone in this room.  So when he’s dancing and something changes, his brow knits, furrowed a bit and he cocks his head.  Something is off.  He shakes his head, willing the difference to dissipate.  But he doesn’t know what that difference is.  He continues to waltz through the music, trying to find it.  He looks down at John in his mind and John is smiling at him.  It’s not one he’s seen mind-John smile at him before.  But it’s one John has used on him many times.  It’s John’s you-idiot-when-it-comes-to-me smile.  There’s a low chuckle under the hand around John’s waist and Sherlock’s eyes shoot open, a sudden jerk out of his imaginary dance.  There in his arms, dancing with him awkwardly, is John Watson.  Sherlock drops his arms and stumbles back in an apology, arms up in defense, trying to pull his masks back on.  John stares at him confused, his arms still in an open position.

 

“Ah, John!” Sherlock rubs the back of his neck nervously.  Being caught out in a very private moment by the one person who should never have witnessed it, it takes a bit longer for Sherlock to regain his composure.  He waves his hand dismissively, heading over towards the dock to turn off the music.  “It’s for a case--” John reaches out to stop him from turning off the music.

 

“Don’t Sherlock,” John’s voice is knowing.  “Don’t lie to me.  Don’t turn the music off.  This isn’t for a case. I know what your violin playing sounds like.  God knows I’ve heard it enough times.  I saw you, Sherlock.  Dancing.  You weren’t in this room.  You were somewhere in your head.  You were smiling, a real smile.  I know your real smile.  This isn’t about a case, is it?”

 

Sherlock’s hand falls away from the music player as John talks.  He pauses before speaking, choosing not to answer John’s question and instead asks his own.  “It’s midday on a Tuesday, John.  Why are you here and not at the work?”

 

John cocks his head and just looks at Sherlock.  “You already know the answer to that question, just like I already know the answer to mine.”

 

“You left Mary.” Sherlock states simply.

 

John nods. “And,” he closes the gap between them, “you were dancing with me in there.” He pokes Sherlock’s forehead.  Sherlock’s face betrays his shock at being caught out.

 

John’s laugh is warm rather than derogatory, “Yes, I left Mary.  I’m sure you already know the details.  You always knew when we were fighting after all.  Now then, let’s start over.  Sherlock Holmes, may I have this dance?”  John bows slightly at the waist, arm extended.

 

John misses the look of want and hope that flashes through Sherlock’s eyes.  God, yes he wants to dance with John.  But Sherlock hesitates.  John notices the hesitation and looks up, seeing an unsure look on Sherlock’s face.  “I don’t want your pity,” Sherlock answers instead.

 

“This isn’t pity, Sherlock.”  John straightens up and looks Sherlock in the eye.  “I’ve been a fool for a long time.  A blind one at that.  Now then, shall we dance?”

 

Sherlock searches those warm blue eyes and finds a deeper warmth and affection than he’s seen reflected back at him before.  Sherlock inhales sharply at the revelation.  John grins up at him, his eyes crinkling.  “Find what you’re looking for?”

 

Sherlock steps into John’s arms, wrapping a long arm around John’s waist, pulling him in, and places his hand in John’s.  “I do believe I have,” he says smiling down at John.  The music plays on and they begin the slow one-two-three of the waltz, eyes locked as they dance.

 

Mrs. Hudson arrives home later that day to discover John’s bags still in the foyer and music drifting down the stairs.  Curiosity getting the best of her, she climbs the stairs to find her two boys swaying gently in place to the music; John’s head on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s nose buried in John’s hair.  Both men’s eyes are closed, smiles on their faces.  She quietly retreats into her own flat, “It’s about time, those two,” she says to herself, clapping her hands quietly, a look of joy on her face.

 


End file.
